


The Walls Between Us

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Canon Era, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Grantaire Angst, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You don't believe in anything."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"I believe in you! Or, at least, I used to."</i></p><p> </p><p>****<br/>Finally fed up with the anxiety and anger, Grantaire speaks out and stands up to oblivious Enjolras, sparking a bitter argument and a change in perspective from the leader of the rebel students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walls Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> I could write the same argument between these two a million times over and never get bored of it
> 
> I HAVENT POSTED A FIC IN 2 YEARS OH MY GOD. sorry.

This feeling of anguish, rage, and desperation was boiling and bubbling up in Grantaire's stomach, churning up in a deadly cocktail with the thick, dark booze he had poured down his throat. His knuckles were white around the bottle, in his hair, as he raked it and dragged his nails over his scalp, over his skin, over and over and over like he was trying to scrape away all the dirt and troubles inside himself. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, also, as if in doing so would deafen him to the sound of his fellows chanting, arguing, and making plans. They were gathered at the other side of the room but were speaking in a chorus of voices, all with different opinions; some bickering, some laughing, some even singing. He felt the skin on his arms prickle, his chest tighten and tongue turn heavy with words he couldn't say, thoughts he couldn't articulate. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the stifling atmosphere of the cafe, maybe it was the constant fear of death, maybe it was the sound of his heartbeat keeping him awake at night, threatening and mocking: _ha ha, you're running out of time. Every beat of me is another second gone. Every thud is a lifetime slipping away. What are you gonna do about it? Are you going to cry? Drink yourself away? Topple yourself over the edge of this barricade before you have to face the guns? Are you going to tell them? Tell him? Are you? Are you? Are you?_

He was sick of it all. He was sick of them making plans that always failed, that always fell to pieces. He was sick of them not learning, not listening. He tried to tell himself that he was jealous, merely wished that he too had that unstoppable energy and high hopes, but he still felt awful. He didn't feel like one of them; he could handle their jeers and sneers but he couldn't deny the feeling that he was watching from afar, knew something they didn't like a viewer of a play, like Cassandra cursed with a mute throat but visions of a heartbreaking future of smoke, fire, and funeral marches. He wanted to scream, to let all the white noise that had been buzzing in his head for months come streaming, exploding out of his mouth. It would shatter the windows of the cafe, shatter his skull. Hopefully. As he sat apart from them all, watching through long black eyelids and long black hair, he found himself seething and silently shrieking at them. In his dreams he gripped them by their shoulders, in his nightmares he tried to pull them to the surface of quickly rising water, only to find cinder-blocks and chains tied to the feet. They always drowned. Watching their leader drown was the worst, his golden hair swirling calmly in the current in perfect tranquil contrast to the carnage. Even in waking life they didn't understand him, they didn't listen. _Grantaire, you're just babbling._

_Grantaire, stop drinking so much; I can barely understand you. You're not making any sense._

_Grantaire, you could be so many things but instead you're just sat there._

_Grantaire, just shut up, we're trying to work on serious matters._

But he loved them, he did. He did and so wholly and fully that it hurt him, deep in his bones, to think of it all being for nothing. He had never been a dreamer; he had too many nightmares as a child.

His fingers tightened in his hair, threatening to rip it out. Maybe that would make him feel better; to pull himself apart skin cell by skin cell, hair by hair, limb by limb way before any violent stranger could impale him on a crossbow. They were so blind to the bloodshed and the bruising, to the lives they were shredding as they stood bravely, foolishly, in front of a firing squad. Or maybe they did know, but decided to ignore it. They lived in blissful, naive ignorance, drunk on future victory. Grantaire surveyed them all - the poets, the scholars, the groupies- and wondered where they fit in, if they slept well at night.

It built and built, up and up. His hands gripped the table, his teeth ground together, he pressed his teeth through his bottom lip as their voices grew louder and more energetic. Another try, another game. The waves of horror, and nights left alone crying, and this awful, horrible, Gordian Knot of guilt and worry and frustration, suddenly unraveled, crashed on the shore, and the white noise blared, filled his ears, stung behind his eyes.

Enjolras was standing up by a round table, map and notebooks strewn across it, one hand on the paper and the other air when Grantaire's words struck him. The cafe went silent, and all turned their heads in disbelief to the cynic in green in the corner of the room, shrouded in darkness, eyes narrow in the weak light but burning with emotion. Pens scratched to a halt, the building held its breath.

"Excuse me?" Enjolras tilted his chin up proudly, acting as though he hadn't heard.

"I said: you can't really think that is true. Can you?" Grantaire's tone was challenging, accusatory. His words wobbled with emotions that he couldn't describe and his knees almost buckled. It was taking so much focus to stay on his feet, to keep his calm and his cool under the stony glare of the leader. Grantaire heard murmurs on the street about him, the fearless one in red, rumours spawned from giggly girls and secretive boys that God himself had given Enjolras eyes that could see the Divine. Eyes that were alight with the glow of Heaven, and eyes that were as shiny as the tears shed by angels. Grantaire discredited those whisperings as nonsense, as bullshit. Enjolras' eyes were not Holy or Sacred; they were the eyes of the Devil, of Lucifer himself who fell from the sky because of his rebellion. They were the eyes that saw only black and white morality. Eyes that made it seem like you were looking into the sun. Grantaire may have once melted before them, shied away, but now he was burning alive, combusting, in their intensity. 

Enjolras folded his arms, unimpressed, almost faintly amused. Grantaire could have stormed across the room and punched him square in the mouth: _How dare you mock me? How dare you laugh and smirk at me?_

"I do think it will be true, as a matter of fact," Enjolras stated, voice clear and crisp and pure as marble. Carved like marble also; purposefully constructed to appear a particular way. Now they were carved into a shaving knife, pressed against Grantaire's gullet; teasing, menacing. "And I would like to know why you thought now was as good a time as any to intervene. You have not previously thought to share your musings, Grantaire. The only thing you share here is a sip of whatever Sins you've purchased this week."

Grantaire laughed, and it felt good to laugh. "That's an old one, Enjolras. You should think of some more interesting jokes." When this received no reaction, he continued: "Yes, everyone, no need to look so surprised. The fool doth speak! Who knew it? Doesn't just bubble like a fish. Doesn't just hang around like a bad smell, rotting away in the corner with the rest of your hopes and dreams for the future. Rather spectacular, don't you think, Enjolras? Not used to people defying you, are you? At least not someone in amongst your battalion. Going to shoot me for treason? "

Enjolras sniffed. "I don't deem that necessary."

A shrug. "I wouldn't put it past you. In fact, I implore you. It would certainly be doing me a favour."

Nobody knew what so say, how to respond. Grantaire seemed impervious to harmful jokes, to insults; he insulted himself enough times that no-one could wound him with words any longer. There was a restlessness, an unsaid stream of words that nobody dared mumble or communicate through a series of glances or nudges to the person beside them. Eyes bored into them expectantly, fearfully, as though wondering when the bomb was going to detonate, and who would be the casualty. Later on some would blame the heat, the drink; anything but the participants. Trapped in their seats around little wooden tables, they jiggled their legs and hoped for it all to be over. 

"You are incorrigible," Enjolras sighed.

"And you can't just talk to me like I am a child."

"I'll stop when you start acting like an adult."

"Adult?! Enjolras, have you looked at your reflection recently? You are not any more of an adult than I. We barely qualify. We are all children, here. Children playing with guns and acting like toy soldiers. This isn't a game; this is real life. You are so naive and blind to that!"

Enjolras steeled, his face shifting into a formidable expression. Grantaire was sniffing, now, his anger turning into fat tears as he crossed the room, talking hurriedly, to face his opponent. 

"I want to help you," Grantaire admitted. "I want to see these brighter days you keep talking about and promising, but I cannot dismiss how frightened I am. You see? Nobody else here will admit to that; to fear. You act like you have none, when really you are just hiding it, pushing it down. And I can see it destroying you. Don't you care about your life? What you are leaving behind? When your head's not up your own arse, it's in the clouds!"

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, because with that bottle in your hand you are firmly planted in reality and willing to give a decent analysis of our situation."

"I understand it better than you do. I understand people; I know how they work and how they think because I take care and time to observe. You think I just sit there on my own doing nothing? I am always on the look out, always monitoring the people you say will come to your aid when the time is right. Now, I am saying that they will not," Grantaire jabbed his finger into Enjolras' chest. He could smell the sweat on him, the odour of parchment paper and ink, and a faint air of alcohol. He wanted to smirk ironically, bitterly. Sometimes even Enjolras got his courage from the bottle. Up close, he was not terrifying, or terrible. Grantaire forced himself to look up into those hellfire eyes and stare him down. He expected to see a monster, a powerful statue. But, instead, he saw a young man.

Just a boy.

For a moment, Grantaire forgot the cafe around him, all the people, and his own train of thought. For a moment, nothing existed except that revelation. He felt his sickness seep into his soul, his face slacken, the fists he had gripped into Enjolras' jacket falling to his sides.

_This isn't worth anything._

Next thing he felt, pulling him back into his own body, were Enjolras' hands on his shoulders pushing him slightly away. 

"Are you quite finished?"

Grantaire said nothing, instead he just nodded vaguely. He was paralysed.

"Thank you for your input, Grantaire. Glad to see that you have finally taken an interest in our cause." Enjolras went back to looking at his notes. 

"I always have had an interest," Grantaire said defiantly.

Enjolras didn't even glance at him. "You don't believe in anything."

"I believe in you!"

The confession rang out in the silence of the cafe; rage-filled, bitter, choked with emotion. Face burning and eyes pricking with hot tears, Grantaire spat at their leader in red which caused a ripple of agitation around him.

"Or, at least, I used to." Enjolras blinked at him, stoic but hurt. "You were supposed to be a hero, our martyr, but you are no better than them on the other side; exploiting and using people, using their desperation to manipulate them into liking you, into making them follow you around. And don't look at me like that, don't deny, because that's what you did to me." Grantaire trembled. "And now I'm going to die here as canon fodder for nothing. Thank you very fucking much."

Enjolras stared.

"R-" Combeferre got his feet and rested a comforting hand on the cynic's shoulder in an attempt to pacify him, but Grantaire shrugged him off violently.

"Don't touch me," he snarled, finally breaking eye contact with Enjolras and barging his way out of the cafe.

The door of the cafe swung shut behind him, and all of the members of the group shuddered in the wake of Grantaire's outburst. All eyes turned to Enjolras, who was frozen, his face morphed into a picture of confusion and upset. Combeferre approached him.

"Enjolras. Are you alright?"

Enjolras nodded faintly, and handed Combeferre a fistful of notes. "Would you mind concluding the meeting today, Combeferre? I have something to attend to."

Combeferre agreed, and Enjolras staggered in silence after the cynic.

***

Usually when he looked up at the stars, instead of the grubby ceiling of his own lodgings, or that of another, Grantaire found rare moments of complete peace, in which his own thoughts no longer bombarded him, and he was free from the constant shouting of others. He felt like a new person, and wanted to drift away in the silence. For a few hours he could leave his body and become one with the city, his homeland. But, that night, under the stars, Grantaire felt as though he was being judged. He groaned to himself, ashamed and brimming with tears, his cheeks scarlet from where he had brushed his hands so brutally across to hide them. His heart beat steadily under his ribs. _Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha._

Someone joined him on the bench in the park. 

"Why did you follow me out here?" 

Enjolras didn't reply, just sat still beside him, hands pressed flat on the wood of their resting spot. Grantaire was suddenly aware of him, aware of his shoulders mechanically moving up and down with every breath, aware of how his fingers twitched so close to his thigh, aware in that way in which only those in love are aware of their object of affection; the realness, the sudden humanity of him taking up space in physical reality was both terrifying and blessed. Grantaire had to remind himself that, despite his flaws, Enjolras did exist as a living, breathing human being.

"Sometimes I wonder if I will ever tire of this. If I will wake up."

Grantaire snapped his head around to his companion, startled by how young his voice sounded. Enjolras was looking straight ahead, his fingers tying themselves in knots by his side, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip and inner cheek. What was it about the night sky that made everyone appear so vulnerable?

"Sometimes I wonder if I will ever begin to think like you do."

Grantaire huffed a pitiful laugh. "Would that really be so horrific?"

"I should think so."

The silence they lapsed into grew once again. Crickets chirped. Voices laughed in the distance. Eventually, Enjolras broke the silence.

"What you said-" he began, before Grantaire interrupted him.

"Do not talk to me as though you owe me an apology. Because it is not just me that deserves that. Plenty more willing and better people do. Enjolras, what I said, it all just poured out. All of this, the fighting and the blood, it is causing me pain and worry and...and I had to say something. I will not let you lead my friends to their deaths without saying a word. You can curse me and beat me all you wish, I will take it gratefully, but you cannot lie and mislead to these innocent people. They need your help. Sensible, logical help. I want you to believe in them, not just your own ideas." Grantaire's words tumbled out of his mouth. "Believe in them like I believed in you."

Enjolras was tense, nodded stiffly. Then, he doubled over, put his head in his hands and his shoulders quivered. 

"What am I doing?" he asked. "What are we becoming?"

The sky, like the future, stretched out above them; daunting and opaque. Grantaire gazed down at his friend, pained and unsure what to do. Never before had he seen the marble facade crumble and show cracks. He hesitated, held his breath.

Gently, nervously, he threaded his fingers through Enjolras' until they held hands in agonizing, still silence.


End file.
